Certainty
by notesofwimsey
Summary: She's been watching the lovers chase each other through the woods. In Stella-talk, it's time to get the world back in order. Final story in a series with Blame, Shame, and Doubt in collaboration with marialisa.


_**Warning: **__Spoilers to 4.11_

_**Disclaimer:**__ All characters belong to CBS and Bruckheimer. _

_**Author's Note:**__ marialisa began this with __**Blame **__(posted 19 Jan 08) written in Danny's voice. I blatantly stole the plot, but wrote it from Flack's POV and posted __**Shame**__ on 20 Jan 08. (I did get permission first: thanks ML!) Many messages and a few kind reviews later, the duet became a trio, with__**Doubt **__written by marialisa and posted 21 Jan 08._

_That left me with Stella, who has been watching over all, and getting frankly a bit annoyed with the whole thing. This story starts off with her, but she doesn't get the final word._

_Unthinkable, really, but there it is._

_The four stories are stand-alones, but should be read in the published order to get the full flavour of the collaboration._

_Thanks to __**marialisa**__ for the original inspiration and permission to play in her sandbox, and to __**sallyjetson, **__as always, for her critique and help._

* * *

**Certainty**

* * *

_**1) Mine**_

I learned to pick up family wherever I could. In foster care, in the orphanage, at the church.

At the academy, in the Drug Squad, in the Crime Investigation Lab.

Big sister, surrogate mother – okay, if I sometimes still play the pin-up fantasy girl role a little harder than really appropriate at my age, it seems like a natural reaction to always being a good girl so that someone somewhere would choose me to love more than anyone else.

Once I choose, you're mine. No matter what you do. No matter how bad you screw up.

Mac was mine the day the Towers went down and I followed him into the streets, searching uselessly for Claire. He was mine when I worked side by side with him in the screaming dirty mess that was New York City for nearly a week. He was mine when I took him home every night and made him clean up, made him eat. I couldn't save Claire for him, but I could save him for her.

Danny was mine the first time he lost it at a scene. It was a kid – couldn't have been more than five years old – hit in a drive-by shooting. Messer had gone to school with the kid's parents. I watched as the grief-laden Italian phrases flowed between them, draining Danny of his professionalism until I had to send him back to the lab to find himself again.

It was always kids with Danny.

Aiden had been mine the first time she screwed up. I could smell her fear, her pain at having let the lab down, having let Mac down. I knew she'd do it again though – Aiden had always been sure of herself, and impatient with the Justice system. It was her impatience that got her killed. I wish I could have stopped that.

I wake up at night thinking about how I could have stopped that.

Lindsay was mine when she spilled coffee on her first day. Mac had had her waist deep in tiger-shit, and that was nothing to the shit Danny had dumped her in just for fun. She was shaking – hyped on caffeine and no food and little sleep. The city had got into her blood like meth: she was hopped up and running her mouth. I wanted to hold her and slow her down. Instead, I offered her food and a little advice and encouragement, and let her fly high.

Maybe a little too high.

Like Aiden, she was sure of herself. But the cute little kid from Bozeman harboured demons the tough-talking chick from Brooklyn had never had tearing at her guts. When Aiden went down, she tore away a piece of the heart of the lab. When Lindsay went down, she very nearly took out the soul as well.

They are all mine, and when I see them hurt, I want to fix things. I'm no Florence Nightingale: no cool hand to the forehead and soothing speech. I am an investigator. And when I see a person hurting, I want to solve the puzzle, find a solution.

Danny was hurting. After Ruben Sandoval was killed, he went on a downward spiral like I hadn't seen in years. The drinking was nothing new - most cops are pretty handy with a bottle. As long as they stick to beer and a local bar, no one worries too much. And for the most part, Danny was pretty well taken care of - between Flack and Angell and me, he got home safe most nights to sleep it off.

But he and Lindsay had been close - and not just having-sex-in-the-back-of-squad-cars-because- they-couldn't-wait-to-get-indoors close. They had been bluebirds-and-John Williams-soundtracks close before that shot rang out and that little boy rode around the corner to die in an alley.

Then Danny shut down and Lindsay went quiet and the twinkling light show that had been following them around the lab blinked off. And I couldn't think of anything to say when she asked me how Danny usually handled a bad situation.

The simple answer was - he didn't.

It got more complicated. The bartender started phoning me to come get Danny off the barstool because Flack wasn't picking up his phone. When I asked him where he had been, he wouldn't answer.

One afternoon, Lindsay told me he had been "such a good friend", taking her out to eat, picking her up after work, talking to her for hours on the phone ...

Oh, and I knew. I knew this was a bomb waiting to go off.

You see, Danny may be a hothead. And impulsive. And overly emotional.

But Flack is a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool, white-knight hero type. The kind who would offer himself up as a hostage to save someone else. The kind who would rip his own guts out rather than cause harm.

The kind who would stand in front of a friend to keep him from getting hurt.

So if Flack is helping out Lindsay, as a friend, and Danny gets the wrong idea...

Who is he going to stand in front of?

* * *

_**2) His**_

I stood in front of his apartment building, just waiting. I didn't know what I was waiting for. But whatever was up those stairs, I wasn't ready to face it yet.

Danny had pissed me off two days ago. Who the hell did he think he was, copping an attitude? Telling me to leave him the fucking hell alone? If he wants to screw up his life, his career, that's his privilege. But my case? What the hell was he thinking?

Of course, he hadn't been thinking. He had been hurting. And once I cooled off, I knew that. And I'd kicked his ass to go see Lindsay and work things out once and for all.

Before things got completely out of hand.

It must have worked. Danny and Lindsay had had yesterday off together, and from the dazed look on his face and the self-satisfied smirk on hers this morning, they had 'worked things out' more than once.

Problem solved, right?

Except that Flack had called in sick. Not just yesterday. But today too.

Don Flack hadn't missed a day of work since he had come out of hospital and completed his rehab. Since the case on the bridge with the 'raise the bar' proposal and bungee sex and death by Statue of Liberty kitsch. He hadn't missed a day since he had got his feet back under him, no matter what happened.

Hell, he hadn't used up all his vacation days from last year. He told me once that after facing the thought of a permanent vacation, he just didn't feel like taking it easy on a beach somewhere.

So here I was, standing outside his apartment. Waiting. Wondering.

He had spent two weeks as Lindsay's white knight, her saviour. It's like a disease: that need to be needed. That desire to be the one who solves the world's problems.

Hey. I am not like that.

I just solve their problems to keep things running at work. That's all. Purely selfish.

I knew Flack had been there when Danny had shown up two nights ago. Lindsay had let that much slip this morning when she wondered how Flack was.

"He was fine on Saturday night. We were … talking, when Danny came banging on my door. He kind of … got the wrong impression." She had blushed like a virgin.

I had bitten my tongue before asking _who_ had got the wrong impression.

I had tried phoning, but his cell went straight to voice mail. So did his land line. No way to get in touch with him.

Except to march my ass up those stairs and pound on the door until he answered.

I took a sip of my rapidly cooling coffee, and leaned against a wall, watching the window I know is his bedroom one. How do I know that? I had been a visitor there a time or two. He had been my hero long before he was Lindsay's. I knew all about his need to rescue the fair damsel.

When Frankie had gone off his head, imprisoning me and beating the shit out of me, Flack had been my white knight. He had sat with me in the hospital, leading me through every step of the endless hours. While Mac had investigated – done what he does best – Flack had held my hand and brought me pain killers and coaxed me to face what I didn't want to face.

For weeks after I had left the hospital, I had phoned him at random times, shown up on his doorstep, used him to protect me from the dark. And he had never turned me away, never asked for a thing in return.

And in return, I had given him nothing.

So here I was. Standing out here on the cold street, sipping the bitter dregs of waste and regret.

And wondering whose choice it was going to be this time.

Mine? Or his?

* * *

_**3) Choose**_

The pounding in my head slowly morphed into something else. There was still pounding – don't get me wrong. I could feel it vibrating through my feet, which had at least now made it off the couch and onto the floor.

But it wasn't my head pounding. It was the door.

I threw something in the general direction of the door and heard it smash across the floor.

"Fuck off."

I was sure I had yelled it, but I gotta be honest. It probably came out more like a whimper. The sound of glass smashing was fucking loud.

The pounding stopped, and relieved, I dropped my head into my hands, trying to push my eyes back into my dry eyesockets.

"Don Flack. If you don't open this door, I will break it down."

It was funny how a voice so quiet could carry so clearly through the fog in my head.

I swear I hadn't planned it. I was quite sure I was just going to sit on that couch and let Hurricane Stella do her worst.

Evidently, my feet had other ideas.

"What the fuck can I do for you?" I meant for it to come out in a growl, but somehow it came off as horribly chipper, false and perky as a stripper's plastic boobs.

You know that phrase "eyes like gimlets"? I don't know what the hell a gimlet is, but it must be something that tears through your skull to search out your pathetic, cowering soul.

At least, Stella's eyes did that to me. Green is a good colour for a death stare. Kind of glittery and just a tiny bit alien.

Or like a fairy.

I grinned down at her. Usually it works. Stella has a hard time resisting the old Flack charm when I pour it on.

Evidently I was a little low on power after 24 straight hours of pouring beer down my throat, tossing it back up into the toilet, then doing it all over again.

She pushed past me as if 6 foot 2 inches of New York City cop wearing only dirty socks and basketball shorts was nothing. I could hear her clattering around in my kitchen; it felt more like she had just crawled inside my head and started tossing out furniture for the trash collectors.

I wandered to the kitchen door, but she had turned on all the lights in the room – it was like walking onto a Broadway stage. I put a hand up over my eyes.

"What the fuck, Stel."

"Go. Shower." She threw a towel at me. "Get dressed. Then you are going to drink a pot of coffee and explain yourself."

Well,_that _was an enticing prospect.

I tried to come up with a good excuse while the hot water poured down on top of me, each individual drop hitting like a tiny little hammer. I was just starting to feel normal when …

"HOLY FUCK!"

Now, I'm not accusing the scheming little bitch in the kitchen of anything. Trust me. I know better than to assume that a woman would take a petty revenge on a person who had done absolutely nothing wrong – was, in fact, the injured party.

Maybe she didn't know that putting on the dishwasher in the kitchen ensures an instant and complete lack of hot water elsewhere in the apartment.

But I'm not taking any bets on it.

By the time I came out of my bedroom, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and at least looking halfway human again, Stella had made coffee and was scrambling eggs. My stomach turned at the thought, but one look at her and I sat meekly down at the table.

Stella was not in the mood.

"Tell me." A cup of hot coffee accompanied the demand, and I was as helpless to resist the lure of one as I was to resist the command of the other. It all poured out: Danny turning away from everyone; Lindsay asking for help; my stepping into the breach.

I told Stella things I hadn't even worked out for myself yet: how sweet and funny Lindsay was; how much I loved to make her laugh; how tiny and perfect she felt against me when I hugged her; how I could still feel her in my arms.

Stella just sat back in her chair and listened, never saying a word until I had finished the eggs, the coffee, and the whole sorry saga, at more or less the same time.

"You know they're back together."

I nodded. Images, well-fueled by Danny's pool-table revelations, had been filling my head for two days and nights. An ocean of beer wasn't enough to drown them.

"What now?"

"Nothing now." I got up restlessly and poured myself another cup of coffee. "I get over it."

Stella nodded thoughtfully, one finger idly running around the rim of her mug. "Can you?" She said it bluntly.

I stared at her and said the first stupid thing that came into my head. "I did the last time."

She nodded again, then said with casual curiosity, "Why did you?"

I stared at her – at the green-fairy eyes, the porcelain skin, at the mouth that could swear like a dockworker one minute and spout off facts like a professor the next and drive a man crazy in the heated dreams that visit unbidden in the deepest night.

"I had to." I hadn't thought about it, hadn't planned to, but suddenly I was a lot closer to her than I had been a few minutes earlier.

"Why was that?" I don't know when she had moved, had stood up, but I could feel her breath on my face, smell the subtle scent that clung to her skin.

"Look. Don't touch." I could hardly breathe; my voice squeezed through my throat as if a hand was clutching me.

Her hands went around the back of my head, and her eyes disappeared, and her breath stopped. A whisper of sound threaded its way through my head: did she say it, or did I simply suck it from her mouth?

"Touch. Take. It's yours."

And as things spiraled out of control, I knew – I finally knew – that when it is right, there are no regrets and no doubts. Not when choice becomes certainty.


End file.
